


We Need to Talk About Lizzie

by WiseClockCounter



Series: The Magnus Institute for Wayward Humans [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Apocalypse, And all the content warnings that come with it really, Car Accident, Depression, Future Fic, Hopeful Ending, OCs - Freeform, POV Outsider, The Lonely - Freeform, Yeah yeah I know but listen you can't have a POV Outsider without OCs, death of parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WiseClockCounter/pseuds/WiseClockCounter
Summary: "Olivia knew what they said about the Magnus Institute. She read about the fraud lawsuits that somehow always got dropped. She heard the sneers and scoffs from those who never went, and saw the haggard looks from those who did.And now she held Lizzie’s small hand in hers, in front of the grey stone arch surmonted by a carved owl. Audio, Vigilo, Opperior, it read. She took a deep breath and entered the threshold."***The Archives gang took control of the Institute after Jonah Magnus' death, some 15 years ago. They run it differently, now. There is no bargaining with a Dread Power, but maybe they can exchange a wrong for a right. Maybe they can make things a little better.
Relationships: Background Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The Magnus Institute for Wayward Humans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965982
Comments: 17
Kudos: 76





	1. We Need to Talk About Lizzie

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfic!
> 
> It will be part of a series of loosely connected POV Outsiders. I won't have a regular schedule, because uni, but each work will be fully written before posting. We suffer no abandonment in this house.
> 
> If there's a content warning I should have tagged, please let me know and I will add it as soon as I can.
> 
> Also, I'm not a native English speaker, so I'm very confused about American and British slang. I did try my best.

Olivia knew what they said about the Magnus Institute. She read about the fraud lawsuits that somehow always got dropped. She heard the sneers and scoffs from those who never went, and saw the haggard looks from those who did.

A friend, Daniel, went there a while ago. He had nightmares, delusions of shadows hunting him at night. When the Institute spat him out, a whole week after he set foot inside, he had gotten even worse. Twitchier. His face had taken an ashen quality and he always glanced around the room. He looked everywhere, except in her eyes. He told her he didn’t sleep better than before, and never would.

Olivia still wondered what she could have done differently, how she could have protected sweet, naive Daniel from the vultures who preyed on his fears.

Her own sister had spent her life visiting soothsayers and psychics, anxious to have her palm read and her destiny laid out in a neat, simple picture, with no bad surprises to fret about. However, no seer had warned Emily of the unseasonable fog, or the truck in the other direction, the tumble in the ditch, the twisted metal door pushing into her lungs, the long minutes watching her husband’s form collapsed on the wheel, unable to turn her head further to see if little Lizzie was okay in the backseat.

Since then, Olivia had left herself drift apart from Daniel. He reminded her too much of Emily.

And now she held Lizzie’s small hand in hers, in front of the grey stone arch surmonted by a carved owl. _Audio, Vigil_ _o,_ _Opperior,_ it read _._ She took a deep breath and entered the threshold.

***

The interior of the building was oddly normal. There was a beige lobby with a little reception desk. Besides the buzzing of neon lights, Olivia could hear the distant sounds of a printer and employees chattering.

She didn’t know what she had expected. Dark rooms, candles and glittering shawls? Or maybe smiling, well-dressed attendants ushering you in, eager to make you understand just how miserable your life had been until now, between two sips of tea and a plate of scones.

There was just the old receptionist, looking mildly bored. A nameplate designated her as «Rosie». She raised her head at Olivia and Lizzie’s approach.

"Oh, hello dear, didn’t see you come in. Do you need something?"

"Ah, yes, actually. I, ah, I heard you could help. Help people who have weird stuff happening to them, that is."

  
"Of course, dear. What are you experiencing?"

"No, it’s not me, it’s, ah..."

Olivia turned her head towards Lizzie. The girl was still silent, her eyes a bit unfocused. Rosie stood up to see the child hidden behind her desk and smiled.

"Here you are. How are you, miss?"

Lizzie didn’t answered.

  
"Do you want to say hello to the nice lady, Lizzie?"

"Hi?" Her voice was muffled. She squinted at Rosie with a puzzled expression.

The receptionist nodded and made a call. Soon, a stern-looking woman came to lead them to a low-ceilinged, dust-smelling basement. She didn’t say a word but looked at Lizzie with furrowed brows, not quite angry but something close.

As they arrived before a wooden door ("Head Archivist", it’s sign read), the woman stood in their way and said it’d be better if the child waited with her in the kitchenette. Olivia’s first instinct was to protest, but something in the way the woman spoke, her pleading, serious eyes, changed her mind. Olivia squeezed Lizzie’s hand and told her she wouldn’t be long. The woman squatted to meet Lizzie’s eyes.

"Hi Lizzie, I’m Basira. How old are you?"

Lizzie still didn’t answer.

"She’s eight", supplied Olivia. Basira nodded and kept talking to Lizzie as if everything was normal.

"Alright. Would it be okay if I stay with you while you wait for your aunt to come back from her meeting?"

Basira’s voice was surprizingly soft. Lizzie shrugged. Olivia didn’t remember telling Basira that she wasn’t Lizzie’s mother. Guess she had. Basira opened her mouth as if to say something else, changed her mind and went to knock on the door. She didn’t wait for an answer, though, opening it and motioning for Olivia to enter.

The door closed behind her without a sound.

***

And so Olivia stood in a strange, dimly lit room with no window, wondering how she ended up here.

The Head Archivist’s office was a terrible mess, noticeable even in the semi-obscurity that permeated the place. Besides the haphazard piles of paper, she counted no less than three cups scattered around the room. One of them, half-full, used an old timey tape recorder as a coaster. Another recording device was nudged under a leg of the desk.

The man sitting there was another matter entirely. While Olivia was taking stock of her surroundings she almost didn’t notice him. But once she did, she couldn’t take her eyes away from him. It was like the room had become one of those Renaissance paintings, whose lines all directed your gaze to one single point.

The man smiled and gestured for her to sit down.

  
"So I gather you need our help."

"What I need is to understand what’s going on. Do you take all your visitors to your creepy basement?"

The man did his best to keep a neutral face but she could see him cringe a bit. Not a change in those eyes, however.

"Actually, I’d rather live in a world where nobody ever found their way to my ‘creepy basement’. But you, Olivia Walker, listened to the rumors and yet made the choice to come here. You entered my domain and registered with my staff, came to seek me in the heart of this place and here I am."

  
The words sank into her, sending a shiver through her whole body. The man watched her reaction with polite but cold curiosity.

"Which is where I’m at a loss. You came all the way here, but you don’t seem to hold this institution in great esteem. Makes one wonder what drove you to such a _drastic_ and _distasteful_ measure…"

Then he sighed, an oddly human gesture.

"… Which also means that whatever it is you’re here about, it scares you more than I do. So I’ll agree to make a deal with you. If you decide to tell me your story, my team and I will do our best to help you out of your predicament. But you must be advised, you will only be trading one nightmare for another. This help you’re seeking, I hope it’s worth your health and sanity."

The man hadn’t asked a single question, but still he waited patiently for her to answer. Olivia got the feeling he didn’t doubt for an instant that she would do as he surmised. That alone was enough to shake her out of her trance. She gave him her best customer service smile.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name."

"Uh, Jon. I’m Jon."

"So, Jon, this monologue of yours, is it the same you fed to Daniel? Young man, came to visit about six months ago, stayed a week, came out shaking?"

The man – Jon – blinked slowly. That’s the moment Olivia realised something. That was the first time he did since she entered. Did he not need to, or did he only blink at the same exact moment she did? She couldn’t decide which would be worse. He fixed his gaze on a corner of the desk.

"I… Yes. More or less. It’s… I didn’t trick him, if that’s what you’re implying, I explained everything, he knew full well what he– But I guess that doesn’t really matter to you, if you’re his friend. I mean, is he– I hope he’s getting better."

Olivia found herself staring with her mouth open. Whatever she had expected it wasn’t… that. She reevaluated their whole interaction. Maybe she would hear what he had to say before storming off.

  
"So, this deal of yours, what exactly does it entail?"


	2. Lizzie Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring one (1) wholesome Martin!

The last time Lizzie saw someone smile, it had been her dad. Mum had just made a joke, Lizzie didn’t remember what it was. Dad always had a booming laugh, coming from deep within him, reverberating in the tiny car. When dad laughed Lizzie laughed with him, even if she didn’t understand what was funny.

The last time Lizzie heard someone cry, it had been her mum. Lizzie still didn’t understand why. Mum called her name but she was just there in the backseat, and Mum had but to turn around to see her. Lizzie didn’t answer. She just sat there, the security belt digging painfully into her shoulder, and stared.

Mum’s door was broken. The Fog poured into the car, curling, languid. Mum was not crying anymore. There was an emptiness inside Lizzie, the kind that made a plastic bag crumple upon itself.

When she remembered to breathe, the Fog was sucked into her throat, and then her lungs and stomach and heart didn’t threaten to collapse under the outside pressure anymore. She inhaled more deeply, so it could fill her up completely.

When the rescuers came, they didn’t smile and they didn’t cry.

Lizzie went to Auntie Olivia after that. Auntie always had the same expression on her face. When Auntie talked, it was always with the same tone. It was with no tone at all. Auntie said things like ‘I’m glad we’re spending time together’ and ‘I’d like to know how you are feeling today’ and ‘I love you’ but Lizzie had no way of knowing if it was true. Maybe it was.

Sometimes Lizzie made mistakes at school. All her classmates and teachers always had the same expression on their face. They had no expression at all. Their motionless features made it difficult for Lizzie to judge. So yes, sometimes she made mistakes, and people said mean things. She supposed they were angry, although they could also be mocking, or bored. Sometimes, she was the one to make people sad. Couldn’t she leave them alone, didn’t she see they were crying. Why didn’t she went to fetch a teacher, they had gotten hurt on the knee, had she really thought they were okay.

At night she made faces at the mirror. The mirror didn’t make faces back. But her mum and dad did, on the pictures. They smiled and they laughed. They were the only ones to still do that, even amongst the other people on the photos and screens and paintings. So she spent a lot of time with the family album, and Auntie said it worried her.

Auntie always took Lizzie to talk with grown ups she didn’t know, while Auntie waited in another room. The grown ups wanted to talk about her feelings, but they didn’t have any themselves, so how could they understand?

Sometimes, she could see a wisp of Fog leaking from her mouth or her fingertips. And so she stopped talking or touching, because if she ended up empty again she could collapse upon herself and that was too scary to think about.

Once, Auntie said Lizzie could sleep with her in her bed, in case she had nightmares. Lizzie didn’t have nightmares. She had no dream at all. But she accepted because she understood Auntie was trying to help. When she awoke, the sheets were damp with morning dew. Auntie stared at her often that day, and the days that followed. A week later, they were off again to see another grown up. Except this time it was Auntie who went into the office, and Lizzie who stayed in the waiting room with the attendant.

When Auntie came back she told Lizzie to come with her into the office. Auntie held her hand tight. In the office there was a man and his brows were furrowed and his eyes they took all of the space and they were sad. He was… sad. He was sad and he smiled.

Lizzie gaped at him.

"Um, hi. I’m Jon. Maybe you would like to sit down."

Jon was hesitant and a bit afraid. Lizzie knew that because that’s how he sounded and that’s how he looked. She sat on the chair across from him, barely noticing that she gripped Auntie’s hand strong enough to leave a mark.

"So, Lizzie, your aunt told me you sometimes have mist around you, even in the house. That’s something."

Lizzie didn’t want to talk about the Fog. Besides, Jon hadn’t really asked a question, so she wasn’t being impolite if she kept quiet.

Jon sighed. Lizzie hadn’t heard someone sigh since… since then.

"Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. It would have been less intru– I would have preferred it, but it’s alright. I will need to look at you, now. Just keep your eyes open."

Jon talked to her as if she was a newborn kitty, but she didn’t really mind, because looking at his eyes was like drinking a big glass of orange juice after playing outside for the whole afternoon. She drank in all the expressions of his face, all the minute movements of his brows and eyelids and mouth while he talked. He was returning her gaze with the same hunger now. And then she saw less and less of him, and more and more of herself. Her face pale and her eyes wide. So wide she could almost see shifts inside them, movements. Slow, curling tendrils, pressing against her pupils like they were tiny windows.

And just like that, her awareness faded and she was back to looking at Jon. He gave a big sigh.

"Oh, yes, yes I see. Your niece, she is not out of the woods yet, but there’s still time to get her back. However this is not my area of expertise. Let me introduce you to one of my colleagues and… "

The grown ups kept on talking for a while after that. Lizzie drifted off.

***

Martin was alright, Lizzie decided. He was another one of those grown ups Auntie wanted her to talk to, but they met in the park instead of another office, so that was a good point for him. And Auntie was always there, watching them from a nearby bench, so Lizzie knew they could leave any minute if she asked to. She didn’t think she would.

This was their third Saturday meeting. At first Lizzie had been disappointed because Martin still refused to bring Jon with him, but he had brought little cakes and iced tea (decaf, he assured Auntie) and he arranged them prettily on the picnic table. The cakes didn’t taste good, they didn’t taste like anything at all, but somehow it was nice to make-believe. Like a plushies tea party with cups full of air. It was exactly like that, she thought, considering Martin’s doll-rigid face.

When she told him that, he kept silent for a bit. Then he asked her what those tea parties were like and why she loved them. She didn’t; she wasn’t a baby anymore. But what about when she was young enough to play with dolls? Well, she had loved to prepare the room for everyone and pour the tea-that-wasn’t, all prim and proper-like, and chat with Mrs. Elephant and Colonel Teddy. They both were great listeners and laughed at her jokes, of course.

"And how did you know Mrs. Elephant and Colonel Teddy were laughing."

"They weren’t, silly. They’re just plushies. It’s a game."

"What about we play that game you and me. Whe talk about our week like normal, but when I ask you, you try to guess what face I’m making."

"No."

She was on her feet, her iced tea bottle smashed on the ground. She hadn’t meant for it to fall, but watching it all broken just made her angrier. She wasn’t even sure why she was mad in the first place, except that Martin kept watching her with his stupid doll face and maybe he was the one to be angry now and she wouldn’t know before it was too late, would she? And he knew, he knew about her, that she was all wrong, and okay, maybe she had wished for people to understand why she messed up and hurt them so they wouldn’t avoid her anymore, but looking at Martin she realised it was even worse this way. He knew all about her, and she couldn’t know anything about him, and he thought it was all a game. Games were for fun, but fun wasn’t for cold, rigid, empty people like Martin.

She wanted to go back home and hide with the family album, with the only two people who were still real.

Martin still hadn’t moved, so she waited for him to say mean things with his uncaring voice and uncaring eyes.

  
"It’s alright. It’s alright Lizzie, we don’t have to play if you don’t want to. I’m sorry. I should have been more careful with you. What can I do to make it right."

Lizzie was breathing hard. Then Auntie was there in front of her, hiding Martin from view.

"Lizzie, Lizzie are you okay.", She turned to look at Martin and came back to Lizzie. "Do you want to go home."

"Yes" was all Lizzie could utter, and so Auntie exchanged a couple words with Martin, grabbed their things and took Lizzie by the hand. Walking towards the car, Lizzie turned to look at Martin. He was still seated, his eyes on the table and his hands fidgeting. That was the last she saw of him that day.

***

Auntie wanted to know what happened, but Lizzie couldn’t bear to have her wrongness discovered by her too. At last, Auntie relented and let Lizzie go to her room. She even let her keep the photo album for the whole evening and the whole night. As a consequence, Lizzie didn’t sleep much, too engrossed by her parents. She knew the pictures so well now, she could categorize the different smiles. There was the normal happy smile, the fond smile, the amused smile, the mocking smile. They were like collectible cards, and she had a whole deck. She kinda remembered that there had been other cards out there, other forms the mouth and eyes could take, but her memories were fuzzy and not at all satisfying.

Days passed by as usual, and Lizzie tried not to think about Martin. Was he angry of not angry, disgusted or not disgusted? Sometimes she thought maybe it could have been a possibility that he was not angry _too much._ She had a lot of experience in making people mad, and they tended to jump on their feet and call her names and shove her and walk away. And they did not say ‘sorry’. But that was with other children, and Martin was a grown up. Grown ups did not always do things that made sense. They were sneaky like that.

It was Saturday evening when Lizzie realized the day had passed without a visit to the park. Auntie hadn’t told her anything about it. Lizzie went to the living room where Auntie was reading a book and asked why. Auntie cocked her head.

"Because you didn’t want to go anymore. I thought maybe we would take a week to relax before trying someone else."

Lizzie’s breath caught in her throat. All this agonising for nothing, and the last memory Martin would have of her is her smashing his bottle and leaving without saying goodbye. That bothered her, for some reason.

"What. No. I thought we were gonna see Martin. I… I was ready to see Martin. I was sure… "

Auntie closed her book.

"Okay sweetheart, if that’s really what you want I can call him back."

Was it really what Lizzie wanted? Well, anyway she couldn’t really argue the point now.

The next Saturday they met Martin at the same picnic table. He had brought stuff like normal, this time muffins and juice, but now the bottles were plastic. As soon as Auntie went away, Lizzie put her hands on the table.

"Last time you were angry. True or not true."

"Not true."

Lizzie nodded, and before he could say more, she launched on a lenghty description of the aquarium she visited with her school. She hadn’t really been that impressed by the fishes, but she wanted to make clear that ‘last time’ was a closed topic. Martin must have understood, because he never broached the subject again.

They came to an unspoken agreement. Martin would not talk about the face game nor ask her to guess anything. But she would. She’d ask him anytime if he was feeling this or that, and he would answer, true or not true. Then they’d continue their conversation as if it didn’t happen. Martin would never know what had been her guess, and if she had been right or wrong.

So, Lizzie learned to understand what Martin was saying, by his choice of words, by the way he sat or stood, by how he turned his head, played with his hands. And she realized she could do the same with other people too. Auntie always wanted to hold her hand or hug her, so Lizzie guessed she really cared after all, even if her hugs felt always cold.

One day, Martin tried to pet a cat. It wasn’t too unusual. He had previously tried to feed biscuits to a pigeon («I know we’re not supposed to do that, but look at them, they’re so scrawny. Pigeons are not supposed to be this scrawny»). But that cat, no that cat was not scrawny. It was a hulking mass of grey fur and yellow eyes, with a scratched ear and scrunched up nose. Martin was talking about his trip to Prague when he stopped mid-sentence, eyeing something to his left. He clasped his hands together, which meant he was happy.

Lizzie didn’t speak Cat, but she was pretty sure this one was _not_ happy. Its head was popping from under a bush, moving left and right as if searching for an escape. But the bush was in the middle of a flat area teeming with humans, far away from trees and alleyways.

Martin motioned for her to follow him. Lizzie did, but stayed at a distance.

"Oh, what happened to you. Are you lost. Here, it’s okay. Lemme see if you have a collar."

The cat made a valiant effort to retreat but Martin was too quick. Before it knew it, it was held close to Martin’s chest, belly up and paws flapping in the air.

"Come on kitty, stop fidgeting. I know that cats love to be held. I have one at home, you know. Now let’s see if you have a collar under all that fur."

Martin reached for the cat’s neck. This was a mistake. The cat snapped at Martin’s fingers, contorted itself, scratched left and right to finally fall to the ground in a grey puff of fur and fury. It ran for the bush as if an army of Black Dogs were after it. It thrusted its head and front legs under the foliage and froze at last, rear and tail still very much out in the open.

Lizzie couldn’t help it; she laughed. As Martin turned sharply to face her, jumper crumpled and full of gray strands, she lauched into another fit of laughter.

Shimmering tendrils crept out of her mouth. Their slow curling became jerky as they emerged, the last convulsions of things that were not meant to face the sun.

Lizzie clasped her hands to her mouth, willing the leak to stop, to oh please let it stop, let it not bleed her dry. Somewhere, Martin was calling her name, gripping her shoulders. As the fear receded, she got confident enough to free her hands. He was hugging her now, crouching, in a litany of ‘it’s okay it’s okay I’m here everything is fine you’re not alone’.

She pushed him away with all her strengh. As he stumbled backwards, she could not guess what went on in his mind. His face was as blank to her as it always had been, really, and it was not use to try and pretend otherwise.

She didn’t wait for him to speak. She rushed to Auntie’s bench, but Auntie wasn’t there. She had at last taken to walk around the park or go buy some stuff when Lizzie was with Martin. Lizzie had liked that because it meant the visit belonged to herself only, but now she missed the old days.

She plopped on the bench, drew her arms around her legs, closed her eyes and waited. Auntie was bound to come back _someday_.

She heard Martin sit on the other side of the bench. He didn’t touch her and he didn’t say anything. Well, good. It would make it easier for her to ignore him. If she concentrated hard enough, she could imagine she was back in her room, door closed and blanket heavy around her.

It worked for some time, but then he had to speak and ruin the illusion.

"You don’t want it to go away, don’t you."

Lizzie tucked her head between her knees.

"I get that. It’s easier that way, feels safer. Makes you afraid to see what’s waiting outside."

Why wouldn’t he just stop and play dead? It was hard enough to concentrate on not listening.

"I… When I was in the Fog, I didn’t want to let go of it either."

She perked her head.

"You saw the Fog too."

"Yes. Yes I did. It was just the same as you, but it wasn’t in me, at least not at the start. I was in it and I couldn’t see anything else. It was… peaceful."

"Then why did you get out."

"Because it was a lie. It kept telling me that it was the only way to make all the bad things stop. But it wasn’t. It just kept them frozen in place, so they could never hurt me. But they could never go away either. The bad things were just always there, in the background, as a reminder that I should never ever try to escape because I could never be strong enough to beat them. But that was a lie too, because I didn’t have to fight them alone."

"So what, you just decided you didn’t like it anymore and walked away."

"No, I would have stayed there forever. But Jon came after me. He went into the Fog and brought me back with him."

Lizzie pondered those words. She always knew Jon had secret superpowers against the Fog, so that was no surprise. But it also made her sad.

"No one would come after me."

"Not true. I would. I’d go back there gladly if it meant saving you."

"For real."

"Yes. Pinky promise."

He extended his little finger. She linked it with her own for a couple of seconds before bringing her hand back to her chest. Pinky promises are serious business.

*******

All of that got Lizzie thinking about what she really wanted, but nothing came to mind. She didn’t much like the way things were. But it was also kinda okay? It was peaceful, Martin said. She didn’t even feel sad. She didn’t feel like anything at all.

But staying still wasn’t enough anymore, and doing anything was just too much. It was all Martin’s fault, with his tales of daring rescues and defeating evil captains.

She wanted to want something.

The Saturday picnics continued like always. Martin didn’t bring up the Fog again, but he talked a lot about Jon, and their flat, and their cat, and the tea shop that was just around the corner that they liked to go, and that time when they tried to cook a soufflé but it got all deflated and Keats the cat decided it was just the perfect shape for a warm cushion.

Deflated. Lizzie didn’t want to become deflated. But it didn’t happen to Martin and his hand was always on the table palm up, even if both of them pretended it wasn’t there.

One day she could take it. One day she would take it. One day she had taken it and now she didn’t know what to do so she avoided Martin’s eyes. He gave her a squeeze and asked about her week. Relieved, she went on about the History test she aced. It was about the Ancient Greeks. She liked the Ancient Greeks. Martin liked them too but mostly for the stories they invented.

Her palm was wet. Fog escaped from it. Martin was watching her. She tensed, but didn’t pull out. Martin smiled. Lizzie blinked and it was gone, but she knew it had been there.

They took hands often after that. She let out the Fog more and more, but Martin said it was important to do it slow and take all the time she needed. ("We wouldn’t want you catching Diver’s disease, now would we?"). That was alright; she wasn’t in a hurry.


	3. A Deal with the Archivist

"So, this deal of yours, what exactly does it entail?"

"Your rest, your dreams, your mind and sanity". That’s what Jon said. For yourself, and for anyone involved, anyone you wish to help. He looked almost apologetic as he explained. Your rest…

Olivia had no such thing as rest, not since the accident. And Lizzie, little Lizzie was rigid and cold in her bed every night. She slept with her eyes open. Olivia had made Lizzie sleep with her and the girl had cuddled against her chest. Mist had poured out of her pores and still she didn’t wake up. Your rest, your dreams…

He sister Emily told her once that dreams were messages from your guardian angel. Olivia had no use for them. Your rest, your dreams, your mind and sanity…

She could have laughed right then, told Jon his fancy tricks wouldn’t work with her and treated Lizzie to some ice cream.

She didn’t. It wasn’t in her nature to not see things through. But that didn’t mean she would go gently.

"I’ll give you what you want under one condition: no harm comes to the child. I’ll pay the price for her too."

"… Wait, there’s a _child_ involved?!"

Jon made a face as if she had suggested to redecorate his precious institute with balloons and fairy lights.

"… Yes? She’s waiting in the other room. With your assistant?"

Jon’s mouth moved silently a couple of times before he could speak.

"She’s not… none of them are assistants, they’ve been very clear on that. And I don’t… I won’t take anything from a _child_."

And that’s how it got settled at last, with disbelieving stares from both sides.

Later, as Olivia beelined for the lobby’s front door, a man rushed past her. He was tall, in a suit, and quite red in the face. He slammed both hands on the reception desk and demanded to speak to the archivist. Rosie didn’t seem very surprised nor impressed to have a man twice her weight loom over her. Her polite dismissals were met with increasing volume, but she wasn’t the one who looked scared. There was something in the way the well-dressed man hunched his shoulders even in the midst of a fit, how his expensive suit had deep creases and his eyes wandered anywhere but at the receptionist.

"Mr. Green, is it? Do you have an appointement?"

"You know damn well why I’m here! Where is _he_?"

"He’s rather busy at the moment. Archivist is a very taxing job, you can understand. Do I leave him a message like last time?"

"No! He… whatever he did, he needs to take it back or I swear I will end this hustler’s whole fucking career!"

"Mr. Green, no need for profanities. Have you tried the customer service review on our website?"

"Auntie? Auntie why did we stop?"

Olivia remembered she had a child with her. Lizzie acted as if she didn’t notice the altercation, so shedid the same. They went for ice cream, though maybe it was more for her sake than the girl’s.

She was beginning to be afraid of what she had done.

***

The first night was uneventful. Lizzie didn’t want to sleep with her since that one time it went wrong, so Olivia was alone in her bed. She replayed the events of the day again and again in her mind, because she knew she could make sense of everything if only she tried hard enough. She didn’t know who that Jon guy was trying to impress with his tales of nightmare-haunting but she wasn’t… Well. Maybe she had believed him at the moment, in that blasted basement, looking at those eyes… which could very well be a parlor trick, except for the fact that the man in the lobby had the same jumpiness than…

Next thing she knew, it was morning, and she had slept as well an could be expected these days. She didn’t remember any nightmare, which was also to be expected. She shouldn’t have let these things get to her.

Three days later, she’d come to miss that innocence.

***

_Lizzie was in her arms. Lizzie was not in her arms. No, Lizzie was there against her chest but she was unspooling before Olivia’s eyes, hundreds, thousands of tiny grey filaments tearing away from the girl to explore the room before fading away and Olivia tried, she tried to grab them and bring them back together but they slipped like water between her fingers and the form she held in her arms got smaller and smaller until she was only hugging herself, alone in an empty room._

_She begged the figure with eyes upon eyes to bring her niece back_ _but it watched her in silence. So many eyes and not one soul behind them._

_***_

Olivia woke up screaming. She ran to the bathroom and sat there hugging the toilet for a while, retching but never getting anything out. Lizzie never stirred from her sleep. Let her get all the rest she needed. Today was their first meeting with the Magnus Institute’s ‘specialist’.

As it turned out, Martin was a thoroughly normal person, which was suspicious in and of itself. It was like that training scene in Men in Black, when Will Smith shot the little cardboard girl, because how could she be strolling about while surrounded by monsters?

Every time Martin snickered, and giggled, and cooed over a pigeon, she found herself watching him more closely. She didn’t find any incriminating evidence, though, and Lizzie seemed to like him. Lizzie didn’t like a lot of people these days.

Then Lizzie decided she didn’t like Martin anymore, or at least that’s what Olivia thought. The girl had screamed at him, her little hands clenched against her sides. She never had that reaction since Olivia took her in. Lizzie was such a quiet child.

Well, they tried and it didn’t work. Olivia may have felt a bit of relief at that. Was she being unfair? The dreams were real alright but that didn’t mean Martin knew what he was doing. Maybe it was time to cut her losses.

After she learned she wouldn’t see Martin anymore, Lizzie had difficulties eating and sleeping for a whole week, and yet she still didn’t cry.

Olivia called Martin back, even if she’d have preferred to sniff a whole bottle of tabasco, or at the very least switch to a proper doctor.

«Of course!, he said when she told him, as soon as she’s able she should see a child psychiatrist.»

She didn’t think his lot were keen on real professional care. He got a bit confused at that, pointing that he did have a Master’s in parapsychology, and «it _is_ an up-and-coming field, you know». She really didn’t know what to make of that.

***

_Lizzie was in the car. Olivia was not in the car. She banged her fists against the window because the stupid door would not open and it was a foggy day, no, it was a sunny day but the car was filled with some kind of smoke and oh god Lizzie would choke._

_Lizzie was alone in the car. No, Lizzie was with her parents in the car and it was Olivia who was alone outside. No, the parents were not in the car, and they were not outside either. They were not anywhere at all._

_That’s what the figure who wasn’t really here with her meant, when it stood over two empty graves. The coffins were sealed and buried with earth packed on top of them, but Olivia still knew they were empty. She just knew, and the figure knew, and the flat look in its eyes permitted no doubt. No one was here with her._

_***_

The nightmares came every night now.

She should have gotten used to it. She hadn’t. At first she tried pills, the kind that induces a dreamless sleep, but the nightmares were relentless things. They found her, always found her even in the deepest corners of her mind. The soporifics only dulled her senses and confused her, made her easy prey in the imaginary realm of night terrors. (It was imaginary, she had to believe that.)

She laid in bed every night, too anxious to fall asleep but too exhausted to stay awake. She drifted in that intermediary state, until she wasn’t in her bed anymore and that thing turned its gaze upon her and she didn’t remember anything but the present, where the fog had always been her reality.

Then she woke up covered in sweat, hating herself for the way she shaked. But she was strong, so she got up and woke up Lizzie and made breakfast and dropped the girl to school and went to work and handled people and logistics all day. Or maybe it was the weekend so she found ways to occupy Lizzie while they did groceries or she washed the clothes or the dishes or the floors. And then the day was over so she laid in bed, too anxious to fall asleep but too exhausted to stay awake.

Sitting on that park bench the next Saturday, fighting her dropping eyelids and growing migraine, Olivia admitted that she couldn’t do all of this by herself. She let Martin be alone with Lizzie. She needed that time.

At first nothing changed, but as the weeks passed Lizzie got warmer somehow, more present. As if she had been out of focus until then. She talked to her classmates. She actually looked at people, with pensive eyes under her furrowed brows. She looked at Olivia and she smiled.

Still, the wisps of fog were everpresent. In the hands that held, the eyes that watched, the mouth that laughed. In leaks and bursts they fled. They subsided after a couple of months but never truly disappeared. They couldn’t, really. They would always be there, but they would not be in control anymore. Lizzie would.

Just for that, it had been worth it, Olivia thought. Maybe she could live with the nightmares. Maybe she could learn to be in control too.

***

_Emily was behind her. Olivia turned around but Emily was still behind her. Emily said: «Why weren’t you there? Why were you never there?» Olivia was there now, but ‘there’ was just an empty playground with its swings and seesaws all covered in rust because of cold humidity and lack of use. Those were not games meant to be played alone._

_There was someone on the swing. There was no one on the swing. No One was watching her every move with too-wide eyes (and eyes, and eyes) as she scratched her nails frantically against the rust because maybe if the games were usable again Lizzie would come back. She wished No One would look away. She feared No One would leave her all alone._

_***_

She awoke with silent tears gliding down her temples. She stayed like that, staring at the ceiling, thinking about missed opportunities and words unsaid. She would never get rid of Emily’s phantom, not when it visited her at night. So maybe she should pay her a visit too, bring something to her grave. Domesticate the pain she could not evade.

(What were those rocks Emily liked? The ones Olivia always dismissed. Quartz, or Aquamarine maybe. For good energy or whatnot.)

Her mornings were calmer now, more melancholy than panicked. She knew the nightmares would never go away. They would never fade either, and that was a fact of life, just as rain was wet and wool was itchy. She would never be fully rested again, nor free from that everlasting undercurrent of sadness. But that didn’t mean there was nothing else to experience.

One day, Lizzie’s teacher called. They had oral presentations where the children talked about what they wanted to do when they grew up. Lizzie had babbled for a good five minutes about some nonsense called ‘parapsychology’.

Olivia took her snobbiest voice to answer: "Well, it _is_ an up-and-coming field, you know?"


End file.
